Broken Glass Waltz
by fawkes21
Summary: **WARNING** This story deals with sexual assault. While investigating a string of disappearances, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade learn that the most painful wounds, the ones that leave the deepest scars, are the ones nobody else can see.
1. Stream of Consciousness

**Author's Note: This chapter is meant to be read as a lot of rambling, fragmented thoughts. Subsequent chapters will be more coherent and more cohesive. In other words, I promise it gets better **

**Usual disclaimers apply - I don't own the characters and I make no profit off of this.**

* * *

_**The questions I provide may have no answers and **__**the answers I provide may have no questions.**_

_**Welcome to Night Vale**__**, Episode 9, "The Pyramid"**_

Regaining consciousness was akin to rousing from hibernation. There was a detached, fuzzy quality to everything, like a television picture distorted by incoming static. There was no concept of space or time; he could have been waking up twenty years in the past or forty years in the future. His mind was as sluggish as a turtle making its way through mud. He took stock of his situation, a mental inventory cataloging new information. His thoughts were fragments, scattered across universe.

Eyes that refused to open. A momentary panic - how does one see without sight? Other senses rattled their cage doors, begging to be let out, to be put to use. Energized and frantic, his senses reached out to seek answers.

He sniffed the air. It reeked of smoke, cigarette and otherwise. The cilia in his nose prickled and recoiled in a fierce tango of simultaneous desire and disgust. Reaching out further, the pungent odor of mold, urine, and sex assaulted him. It smelled like a truck stop restroom, of depravity.

He became aware of his tongue then, thick and useless as a slug in his mouth. Teeth felt slimy, like moss on rocks. There was a sourness in his saliva, like something had crawled in and died. There was a tangy, metallic taste on his lips. Blood.

There was a buzzing in his ears. Was it coming from within his head or from somewhere else? It hummed as shrilly as cicadas and threatened to drive him mad. Groans, low and deep. His? Or someone else's? Eyes needed to start working and soon. In the distance, voices. Angry, muffled.

Body was becoming real again. Everything hurt. Throbbing. Pain resonated down his spine like piano wire striking out a discordant melody. It was unbearably cold. There was a dull, icy ache that he might be able to get rid of if he set himself on fire. Limbs were stiff, like a marionette left in the trunk too long. Damp air on his skin. Was it the room or something else making his skin crawl like spiders?

A frustrated command from his brain to his eyes. He needed to see. Lids finally peeled back. He was swimming in pallid, yellow light. A dingy room. Cot against one wall that wouldn't support the weight of a feather. A single door. Locked? Come on now. Of course. A carpet that might once have been - blue? Maybe? Hard to tell; stained by mildew and neglect. No windows. Two motionless bodies.

Wait - what?

Brain still scrambled. Put the individual components back together into something recognizable, like stacking pixels to make a picture. Faces. Familiar.

Oh God.

John. Lestrade.

They'd been investigating -

Oh.

Oh no.


	2. In Threes

**Author's Note: There are two things I know nothing about: classic cars from the UK and trees. So naturally, I ended up relying on both to tell this story. I will own up to any gaps/errors in my research. **

**Usual disclaimers apply: Not my characters, not for profit**

* * *

_**Yesterday, upon the stair**_

_**I met a man who wasn't there**_

_**He wasn't there again today**_

_**I wish, I wish he'd go away…**_

_**From "Antigonish" by Hughes Mearns**_

**Three days ago** Sherlock and John had been called in by Lestrade to consult on a case that had the Yard stymied. Three men, all in their forties, had simply vanished. One per month, for the last three months. One (Giles Hornsby) disappearance was unpleasant. Two (John Ames) was unusual. Three (Garrett Davidson) was unsettling. There was little to go on. All three had gone missing at some point between a Saturday and a Sunday, their disappearances not noticed until they failed to show up to work the following Monday. All three were responsible, reliable, single men who had no known issues with anybody in their personal or professional lives. All three were, to the best of anyone's knowledge, in good health with no past or present problems with drugs or alcohol. No immediate connection stood out. They ran in different social circles, they had different hobbies and interests, they worked in different fields. They did not share any common friends, they did not frequent the same pubs or restaurants, they did not attend any of the same corporate or leisure events.

All three men were, by all accounts, perfectly ordinary. In fact, the only thing that all three seemed to have in common was that they were perfectly ordinary. It was this puzzling normality that had prompted Lestrade to consult Sherlock. He knew if anyone could find the thread that wove the men's lives together, it would be the consulting detective.

There were no bodies. There were no crime scenes. There were no witnesses. The only thing they had was an abundance of nothing. Lestrade had taken Sherlock and John to investigate all three of the victim's homes, which had turned up more nothing.

They returned to the first victim, Giles Hornsby's flat at Sherlock's insistence. There had to be something they'd missed. Sherlock began to focus his attention to the artwork that Mr. Hornsby had chosen to decorate the small space. Most of the photos and paintings depicted the sea side - no surprise given that Mr. Hornsby had grown up in Broadstairs. But one painting caught and held Sherlock's eye; one painting that was quite different from the rest. It was a painting, somewhat Impressionistic in style. It depicted a forest wearing a coat of autumn colours. The image had blurred feel to it - like it was being observed as one zoomed past.

"I have the most peculiar sense of déjà vu," said Sherlock as he examined the picture carefully. "Do you have the photos from the other victims' homes?"

Lestrade pulled the photos from the folder under his arm and handed them to Sherlock, who began to spread them across the floor.

John crouched down beside him. "What do you see?"

"Nothing yet," murmured Sherlock, blue eyes flitting across the photos as rapidly as a hummingbird's wings.

Suddenly -

"There!" he barked, triumphant. Lestrade and John leaned over to look at what he was pointing at. In the photo from John Ames' home, a painting was visible on one wall. It was of a rocky bluff in the same ambiguous style as the painting in Giles Hornsby's flat. Three sets of eyes turned as one to look at the photos from the third victim, Garrett Davidson's home.

"Look," Lestrade said, tapping the photo lightly, "Top left corner."

Hanging on the wall in Mr. Davidson's flat was a painting in the identical style, this one illustrating a rolling green meadow. Sherlock grabbed the painting from Mr. Hornsby's wall, his enthusiasm igniting from glowing ember to sparking flame.

"Artist's name is Shelby White," he said, pointing lazily to the signature in the bottom corner of the painting. "Have your people check the paintings at the other two homes; they will tell you that she painted those as well. Call me once you've located her."

And then he was gone, in a flash of long black coat and unabashed pride. John offered Lestrade a lopsided, apologetic grin as he dashed off after his flat mate. Lestrade rolled his eyes as he pulled out his phone and began calling his team to collect the evidence that he knew would confirm Sherlock's conclusion.

* * *

To the surprise of no one (and to the disgruntlement of some), Sherlock had been correct. All three victims had purchased paintings from Shelby White, an artisan who sold her projects at the Old Baylor Market, a monthly gathering of artists and craftsmen, of collectors and aficionados.

Shelby White greeted them for questioning at her studio that smelled of creativity and peppermint. Her welcoming countenance seemed reflected in her art; it was as if a little piece of her soul beamed from every piece. Even Sherlock's piercing gaze and lofty stroll through her studio didn't faze her. She welcomed them in as if she had been waiting for them her whole life.

"Ms. White, do you recognize any of these men?" Lestrade asked, laying photos of the three victims in front of her. She examined each close, nodding her assent for each one.

"They're dead?" she inquired, her green eyes radiating empathy.

"They're missing," Lestrade clarified. "The only connection we can find between them is that they each purchased one of your paintings."

"Paintings just like these," said Sherlock from across the studio. Lestrade and Shelby joined Sherlock and John in front of a series of paintings underneath the window the stretched up to the ceiling. A dozen different scenes and landscapes, each with the same wind-whipped quality as the paintings owned by the victim.

"The Open Road series," said Shelby. "It's the world we miss as we're racing past."

"What inspired it?" asked John, admiring the paintings.

"As a child I could remember sitting in the backseat of my parent's car as we traveled. There was a whole world, right outside my window, that I only ever saw as a blur. We become so consumed with the destination that we forget about the journey. The paintings are glimpses of the life that will pass us by if we don't slow down."

Suddenly, the familiar look of understanding flashed across Sherlock's face. He snatched the files from Lestrade's hands and began to flip through them, mumbling unintelligibly to himself.

"Of course!" he blurted out, thrusting the files at Lestrade's chest. "That's it - that's the connection!"

"What is?" asked Lestrade, looking through the files as if the answer might jump up at him too.

"At this marketplace, where you sell your art, is there a man there who claims to be a collector of antique or classic cars?" Sherlock asked Shelby, ignoring Lestrade.

"There is. How - how did you know that?" Her reply was both bewildered and impressed.

"Because it's all there. The connection isn't the paintings themselves - it what the paintings represent to the victims. They're all fascinated by cars."

"How can you possibly know that?" asked Lestrade, glaring at the files for not making the answer clear.

"Look at the photos of their homes again. Garrett Davidson had several models of classic cars on his bookshelf. John Ames had a Morgan 4/4 as his computer screen saver; you can see it in the photo. And Giles Hornsby had a cat - a cat named Spitfire."

"Cars were a common interest but not predominant enough for us to see the connection," said Lestrade, finally understanding.

"They would have all been drawn to artwork that illustrated the world as they saw it best - behind the wheel of a car," John mused.

"People are often drawn to art that stirs something in their memories," Shelby said.

"Do you remember any of them talking about cars when they were buying the pieces?" asked John.

Shelby bit her lip slightly as her eyes grew distant. "One of them - I don't remember which one, sorry - mentioned he'd loved the old Roadster that his granddad used to drive. Said my paintings reminded him of afternoons just driving around the countryside."

"They all probably shared a similar sentimentality. At a marketplace that features antiques and collectibles, someone specializing in classic cars would have grabbed their attention," Sherlock pointed out.

"You said there was a guy there who dealt in classic cars - what can you tell me about him?" asked Lestrade.

"Not much," she shrugged apologetically. "I never saw him. I just heard from various customers that this guy was there, looking for other collectors or interested parties."

"Did you ever see his cars?"

"No. I don't recall ever seeing them parked outside. I'm sorry. I wish I could help."

Lestrade reached out to shake her hand. "You've helped plenty. Thank you."

* * *

**Three hours ago** they had pulled up to the massive building that housed Old Baylor Market. The marketplace wasn't scheduled to be open for another two weeks; there simply wasn't time to wait and see if the man with the classic cars showed up. A few phone calls and Lestrade had confirmed that the purported collector, one Charles Danbury, did not exist. A man using that name had paid the monthly vendor fee in cash but no such person, car collector or otherwise existed. It was apparent that the man who prowled the market was not looking for collectors or classic car enthusiasts; he was stalking his prey.

Questioning other vendors resulted in a vague, non-descript image of a man who wandered the crowd, approaching men who he had observed talking with other car enthusiasts - artisans (like Shelby White) who produced car-related artwork, sculptors who created masterpieces out of the skeletal remains of cars, or model car collectors. The only thing that stood out about the man was how little he stood out. His banality was his only defining characteristic.

Lestrade, Sherlock, and John walked the perimeter of the building, pondering how this remarkably unremarkable man had managed to lure and trap his victims.

"The victims cars were all found, abandoned, in various remote areas outside of London, correct?" asked Sherlock as he glanced at the maze of tire treads in the mud beneath his feet.

"Right. We searched those surrounding areas but there is nothing to suggest any of the victims were ever in the vicinity," Lestrade replied.

"So the cars were dumped," John theorized, eyes scanning the vacant horizon.

Old Baylor Market sat on a vast stretch of land that disappeared into dense, menacing forests. Sherlock gazed into the tree line at the outskirts of the mud that, during the marketplace weekend, was a reasonable facsimile of a parking lot.

"If I was going to lure someone under the pretense of looking at a classic car, I wouldn't park it in the lot with all the others. I'd want to keep it away from both potential damage and prying eyes," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

He led the way as the three men strode across the muck. The tire tracks grew fewer the farther they got from the building. Soon, there was only one set of tracks that remained. Footprints had been smudged and marred by time and nature but the deep grooves of the treads remained. Lestrade turned to gaze at the building, now far in the distance. Far enough that no one would have been able to see much of anything.

"I think our victim came out here willingly, to look at the car. He was then knocked out or drugged and taken away in that very car," said Sherlock.

"Wouldn't that be awfully conspicuous?" asked Lestrade skeptically. "I mean, any sort of old car is going to stand out in a crowd."

"That's why it's so brilliant," said Sherlock. "It stands out so much that everyone notices it but no one is looking for it. To the casual observer, it's just a neat old car."

"What about the victims' cars then? How did they end up scattered all over the place?" challenged Lestrade. Even as he was asking the question the answer was dawning on him. "Oh. He's not working alone."

Sherlock nodded, mildly impressed. "He has at least one other person who takes the victim's car and disposes of it while he's bringing the victim back to his house."

"We have a man with a face no one can remember driving cars that no one can forget. And I'm willing to bet he brought a different car every time. So how do we track him down?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock circled the spot where the car had been parked as if he were a vulture. He paused and crouched down to pick at some leaves mashed into the mud.

"There are black poplar leaves," he announced.

"Thanks?" ventured John, sharing a confused look with Lestrade.

"Do you see any black poplar trees?" asked Sherlock.

Lestrade raised his eyes to the trees that loomed above them. "No?" he guessed, not sure he would recognize a black poplar tree if it bit him.

Sherlock let out a huff of frustration. "There are no black poplars -or any poplars for that matter - here, which means these probably came in on the car we're looking for. If we find the trees, we find the car. Find the car, we find our suspect."

As he spoke he was already typing frenetically on his phone, no doubt researching the topography of the surrounding areas.

"There are large areas of black poplars starting ten kilometers from here," he said, striding back towards their car.

"What's your plan?" asked Lestrade, hurrying to keep up.

"Weren't you listening? Find the trees, find the car," said Sherlock as if Lestrade was being purposefully obtuse.

"I'm going to need more than that," replied Lestrade, nonplussed.

Sherlock spoke slowly, as if speaking to child. "Cross reference any registered classic cars in this area -" he thrust his phone under Lestrade's nose "-and we'll have our suspect."

"Well that's not so much 'find the trees, find the car' as it is 'found the trees, now find the car', is it?" Lestrade asked dryly. Sherlock's scowl made Lestrade bite back a smile as he made the call.

* * *

There was only one classic car registered in the area, to a Mr. Edward Montgomery. Lestrade promised to check back in with Donovan after following up on the lead, and off they went.

At the end of the long, lonely gravel road, a house with a red Triumph Stag parked out front appeared to greet them. Beyond the house was a large barn surrounded by black poplar trees.

The house was not what Lestrade had expected. He wasn't sure what he expected but it wasn't this plain white house with the green shutters. It was, like so much else about this case, utterly unmemorable. It was just a house, with just a barn and just some trees on the property.

As they pulled up, thunder rumbled in the distance.

In keeping with the theme of the case, their plan was simple. Knock on the door, claim to be lost, drop a casual remark about the classic car in the driveway, and proceed from the there.

The simple plan was, as it turned out, also unnecessary. The knocks on the door went unanswered. Sherlock took this as an invitation to go and see what was in the barn, despite Lestrade's protests that they were trespassing. But his curiosity outweighed his misgivings and he followed Sherlock and John to peer through a crack in the locked barn doors.

Three classic cars of indeterminate makes and models. The bodies of the cars were covered in thick white tarps but the wheel wells of each belied their age.

"Well those certainly weren't registered," remarked Lestrade, walking away from the door, examining the surrounding area.

"Is that enough evidence to get a warrant?" asked John, squinting into the darkness of the barn.

"If that's not, this might be," said Lestrade grimly, as he knelt and peered into a large barrel that lay on its side. "Blood. Inside is stained with it."

Sherlock rattled the doors. The chain was looped through the handles but there was enough slack that the doors could be opened just enough for someone to squeeze through. He turned sideways and wriggled through.

"Jesus - Sherlock!" Lestrade hissed from outside. Sherlock ignored him and looked around, eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light. A flurry of spluttered protests and a moment later, John popped in beside him. Pulling a small torch from his pocket, John shined the light on the cars as he and Sherlock made their way over to investigate.

The thunder growled a second ominous warning.

Outside, Lestrade paced like an anxious tiger. His intuition was pounding on the door, screaming that something was very, very wrong. He swore he heard a noise from the back of the barn - was it a trick of the mind or something tangible? He drew his gun and moved slowly along the side of the barn, heart pounding, muscles tense. He reached the corner, took a deep breath, came around and saw -

Nothing. There was no one there.

Because they were behind him.

Something heavy struck him on the back of his head, just above his left ear. The stars behind his eyes burst into a supernova as the world went dark.

The thunder roared.

* * *

**Three minutes ago **Lestrade had woken up with what had to be the worst headache on record. It felt like his skull might split open any second, spilling blood and sanity on the floor. He tried to push himself up off his back but his arms were as wobbly as jellyfish tentacles. He floundered briefly before giving up.

"You look like a turtle, trapped on its back," said a low, familiar voice.

"Shut up, Sherlock," he said tiredly.

Now with something to prove, he struggled once again to sit up. As soon as he was upright he regretted the decision and wished he had remained in his turtle-like bliss. The blood crashed against his head with the force of a mighty river and made the room pitch and spin with such ferocity that he wasn't even sure he was still conscious.

John was crouched beside Sherlock, inspecting the auspicious bruise on the consulting detective's forehead, a salient purple mark on paler-than-usual skin. Both men looked as groggy as he felt but neither appeared to be seriously injured.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked, wincing at how loud his voice sounded in his ears.

"They were hiding in the barn. One of them must have slipped out and snuck up behind you. The other two took us out," said John. "Woke up here."

"On the wrong side of Bluebeard's bloody door," Lestrade grumbled.

Heavy footsteps coming down the stairs killed any further discussion. The pain in Lestrade's head was replaced by the fear in his heart.

There was a snap of the deadbolt. Then a click of the key in the lock. Finally, a rattle of the doorknob.

They'd been knocked out. Locked up. Lestrade didn't know what was going to happen next but he knew it wouldn't be good.

Why did bad things always have to happen in threes?


	3. Maelstrom

**WARNING: This chapter delves into mature content and sexual assault. Read at your own discretion.**

**Author's Note: This chapter proved more difficult to write than I thought. My words kept getting tangled up like a string of Christmas tree lights; I couldn't get them to work. I appreciate and welcome reviews. **

**Usual disclaimers apply: Not my characters, not making any profit.**

* * *

_And not a Sinew—stirred—could help,__  
__And sense was setting numb—__  
__When God—remembered—and the Fiend__  
__Let go, then, Overcome—_

"'_Twas Like a Maelstrom, With a Notch" by Emily Dickinson_

The small doorway filled with three men. They lingered at the threshold, surveying the occupants of the small room with the same benign fascination of a bored child at the zoo. The man at the forefront (the leader of this crew, no doubt) stepped into the dimly lit room, smiling disingenuously. With the exception of his inordinately impeccable posture, he was, as everyone had said, unexceptional. He was the type of man who no one would think to look twice at as he passed; the kind of man who could blend into any group. The ultimate chameleon.

His cronies were rather the opposite; they would stand head and shoulders above the crowd. Two lumbering holdovers from the Paleolithic Period who had both been cursed with a most unfortunate Cro-Magnon brow. The two men seemed to function as one; almost interchangeable. Mind and look were both blank.

The leader of the pack strode into the room and dropped three bottles of water and a filthy metal bucket into the room.

"Edward Montgomery, I presume?" asked Sherlock.

"Monty, please," the man replied with false propriety. He gestured to the bottles and the bucket. "Some refreshments and, of course, a pot to piss in. Don't want you to question my hospitality," he said with a barracuda smile.

"Oh, your generosity has been duly noted," Lestrade said, sarcasm dripping from his lips.

Monty pouted. "You don't like it?" he asked, adopting a child-like affectation.

John looked around the room, nose wrinkled in disdain. "Surely we're not the first guests who've complained."

"Because we're not the first guests, are we?" asked Sherlock, studying the man's face.

Monty smiled, though it never reached his eyes. "I'm certain I don't know what you mean."

"We're looking into the disappearances of Giles Hornsby, John Ames, and Garrett Davidson," said Lestrade. "All three went missing from Old Baylor Market; all three had an interest in classic cars. Coincidentally, you were at the marketplace with your cars on the dates of all three disappearances."

"That _is_ a remarkable coincidence," Monty said, pasting a shocked look on his face. "But that's all it is. I've ever met those three men. And I most definitely did not bring them down here."

Ignoring the protest from his aching limbs, Lestrade hopped to his feet. Sherlock looked quizzical, John looked horrified, and Monty looked mildly amused by this gamble. Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber grunted and took a hulking step together in unison but Monty kept them at bay with a lazy wave of his hand. He looked like he was enjoying the performance.

Smiling genially, Lestrade said, "Well, then I apologize for the confusion. We'll just be going then."

Monty laughed heartily. "Oh, no. Please. Stay a while."

"Love to. But can't," Lestrade said brightly.

The cold smile tightened at the corners of Monty's mouth. "I insist."

"That's thoughtful, truly. Especially when you've so clearly gone to great lengths to make us comfortable. But we really must go. Someone is expecting us." Lestrade was kicking the hornet's nest and he knew it.

"That 'someone' wouldn't be named Donovan, would they?" asked Monty, the frosty smile never faltering.

The noose of fear looped around Lestrade's neck. He faltered.

Monty reached into his back pocket and withdrew something. Lestrade groaned.

His phone.

Goddammit.

The noose tightened around his throat.

Clearing his throat, Monty read aloud from a text, "Just checking in. Everything alright?" He looked up serenely. "It's terribly rude not to respond to your messages, so I took the liberty of replying."

Lestrade was finding it harder to breathe; the noose was choking him now. He knew where this was going.

As he read his reply to Donovan, Monty's voice was sing-songy and cruel. "Dead end. House was abandoned. No sign of Montgomery or the car. Take the weekend to regroup. We'll look at it with fresh eyes on Monday."

He pocketed the phone and stepped forward until he was dangerously close to Lestrade. "No one's going to be looking for you. Not until Monday at the earliest," he said, his voice dropping an octave to become ominous. "So what do you say we have ourselves a little fun in the meantime?"

Lestrade felt like a passenger on a sinking ship, watching the only hope for rescue disappear into the horizon. There was nothing to cling to now but the crushing pressure of inevitability. Help wasn't coming.

The two men faced off in terse silence, each daring the other to look away. Something flickered in Monty's eyes. Lestrade didn't like it; it set the hairs on the back of his neck arcing as if struck by a current. The look was unsettling and unseemly and unnatural. Monty ran his tongue lightly over his lips and reached for Lestrade.

Instinctively Lestrade took a step back while slapping the invasive limb away. He regretted the action immediately.

Monty reacted by lunging forward and grabbing a handful of Lestrade's hair. He slammed the older man's head back against the wall with such force that Lestrade's stars saw stars. Monty tossed a terrifyingly playful smile over his shoulder at his two associates who tightened their perimeter on John and Sherlock

Monty pinned Lestrade to the wall easily, pressing one meaty forearm across his windpipe. He pressed his body close to Lestrade's. Too close. Far too close. The hand that was entwined in his hair moved to drag his fingers the length of Lestrade's jaw.

"You're feisty," said Monty whispered approvingly, his fingers caressing Lestrade's cheekbones like a sculptor with his bust.

This was the center of the maelström. The sinking ship he was on was being pulled asunder by viciousness, unrepentant fury, raw power. He was caught in a current of evil and destruction. The life rafts were all gone; it was just him and the sinister forces.

Despite the sickening realization of what was happening. Lestrade's face remained impassive. He imagined his blood turning to stone inside of him, stopping the panic and dread from coursing through him. He was fortifying himself from the inside out. He wouldn't give this man - this fiend - the satisfaction of seeing his distress.

Monty leaned in to bury his face in the hollow of Lestrade's neck and inhaled deeply.

"Your scent is intoxicating," he breathed. Maybe the old cliché was true - maybe one actually _could _smell fear.

His fingers drifted to the collar of Lestrade's shirt. His probing fingers slowly, painstakingly, undid the top two buttons. He raked his nails over bare flesh, leaving pale pink streaks as a reminder of his ill intent. His head still angled downwards, he shifted his eyes to look up at Lestrade's face. A callous smirk played on his lips, daring Lestrade to resist, to react. Lestrade's stare remained determined, fixed on a point only he could see.

"Maybe you'd like it better if I used my teeth," Monty said, his hand continuing to creep down, fondling each button on the shirt. The threat of tearing them open, of exposing the raw vulnerability underneath was almost more terrifying than if he had actually done so. The uncertainty of how far he was willing to go burrowed into Lestrade like a parasite.

As his hand reached the hem of the shirt, he tugged the fabric lecherously, untucking it. He toyed with the shirttails, weaving the fabric through his fingers. He was taunting his prey, like an orca taunts a seal before devouring it.

With the sudden ferocity of a striking rattlesnake, he grabbed Lestrade's belt and pulled towards him, forcing increased, unwelcome body contact.

Lestrade took in a short, involuntary breath. He dug his fingers into his thighs, trying to replace the burning anxiety with something more tangible, something he could control. He was clinging to the meager threads of his composure. It was all he had.

Monty's grip on his belt tightened as he leaned in, mouth impossibly close to Lestrade's ear. "Well old dog, what do you say I teach you some new tricks?"

The gnashing of the teeth of the zipper on his trousers shredded Lestrade's dignity and resolve. He swallowed hard and looked to the heavens, praying silently to a God he no longer believed in. He mashed his lips together, caging the scream that ached to burst forth.

He could feel himself breaking away from his body, retreating into the depths of an abyss. If hid himself deep enough, maybe Monty couldn't reach him. Maybe he wouldn't feel anything. Maybe he could actually turn himself to stone.

The lewd murmurings became an unintelligible, dull hum. His eyes saw nothing, only the void where his existence had once been. The illusion of freedom had been blasted away, a crater of doubt all that remained.

Everything became like a lucid dream; he was caught between two different planes of existence. What could be controlled and what could not. What was real and what was imagined. Was he real anymore? Would anything be real again? Or was this the start of a new journey where he just moved from moment to moment in an illusory fog?

An angry yell brought him crashing back. The impact of his return to reality physically hurt. It went well beyond the pain and discomfort that the probing hand below his belt was causing. This was a different kind of pain, an agonizing reminder that nothing would ever be the same again. It felt like every vein was opening and he was bleeding to death beneath his skin.

"Stop it," snarled Sherlock again, unable to watch this macabre production any longer.

Monty turned to throw a mirthless smile at his captive audience.

"Stop?" he asked, feigning surprise. "I haven't even started yet."

Monty lazily glanced at the gaudy watch on the arm that was pinning Lestrade to the wall like an insect. He made a show of sighing in disappointment.

"However, it seems like we'll have to put the fun on hold for a while. I'm a busy man. But don't worry - we can pick up right where we left off."

Before he left, he struck one final blow.

Gripping Lestrade's face like a vice, Monty pressed his cheek against Lestrade's, his breath hot and sour on Lestrade's ear. Where his breath burned, his words chilled.

"By the way, I lied when I said I didn't know anything about the missing men. They were here. They're _still_ here.

Well. Parts of them are anyways."


	4. He's Not There

**Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews/follows/favourites. I won't lie, getting validation from someone who's not your mom or your spouse rocks **

**Usual disclaimers apply: Not my characters, not making money off of them.**

* * *

_**In a way**__**  
**__**It's someone else's story**__**  
**__**I don't see myself**__**  
**__**As taking part at all**_

_**from "Chess" (music by Benny Andersson & Bjorn Ulvaeus, lyrics by Tim Rice)**_

"_They were here. They're still here. Well. Parts of them are anyways."_

The words rolled around in Lestrade's head as the door slammed shut. Nobody moved. John and Sherlock were watching him carefully, waiting for him to dictate their response.

Lestrade let out a breath that he felt like he'd been holding for days. His heart started beating again, hammering out a rhythm in double-time. He was trembling violently but it wasn't from the cold. With shaking hands, he closed the zipper on his trousers and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. His fingers were heavy and clumsy, making the task difficult. He was stitching himself back together, praying the seams would hold.

He slid down the wall to rest in a heap on the floor. He leaned his head back against the wall and stared vacantly at the water-stained ceiling. John slowly moved to sink down beside him. Lestrade could feel John looking at him with worried eyes. Pinning a grim smile on his face, Lestrade rolled his head slightly to look at his friend.

"I'm fine," he said robotically.

He could see that John and Sherlock didn't believe him but he didn't care. He wrapped the lie tighter around himself, ensconcing himself in its protective layer. He let his head drop down on his chest, absently playing with an errant thread on the hem of his shirt.

"What did he say to you?" asked Sherlock, unable to keep his curiosity at bay any longer.

The question barely registered with Lestrade. "Does it matter?" he muttered without looking up.

"It might," said John gently, trying to pull the information out carefully, like a splinter from under the skin.

Lestrade shrugged listlessly, eyes still downcast.

Sherlock made a little noise of impatience at Lestrade's reticence. He reached for Lestrade, determined to get the man to focus - he needed to know what Monty had said, dammit. Lestrade drew in a breath so sharp that he might never take another one. Sherlock recoiled, abashed.

"Lestrade, I'm - I'm sorry," he said throatily, feeling very low at that moment. John looked at him reproachfully.

Lestrade shook his head slightly as he finally looked at Sherlock. "It's okay. I'm just a little…jumpy, is all. I'm fine."

Maybe if he said it enough he would actually be fine. What a pathetic self-fulfilling prophecy that would turn out to be.

Sherlock's voice softened as he asked again, "What did he say?"

Lestrade swallowed thickly. "He said that the missing men were here - at least, parts of them are."

"Jesus," breathed John in horror.

"You believe him?" asked Sherlock.

"You don't?" asked Lestrade with limp incredulity.

"Based on everything he's said and-" he paused for just a second too long "-done, I think he's just trying to scare you," said Sherlock.

Lestrade's voice was very small. "It's working."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. His words were all tangled up in knots. Up until now, he had always rather thought that the DI was unbreakable. But this hairline fracture in Lestrade's stoic façade unnerved him. The effects of the assault, barely visible on the surface, compromised his stability, threatening to bring him down at any moment.

John cleared his throat, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "So what's our plan?" he asked, giving them something else to focus on. Lestrade shot him a grateful look.

"To be honest, I'd sort of been counting on Donovan to bring a team out to look for us when Lestrade didn't check back in," Sherlock admitted.

"And now?"

"Try and take them out?" suggested Sherlock half-heartedly, knowing exactly how non-viable that option was.

"To be honest, I thought about that," John conceded, "but I'm not sure taking on two gargoyles armed with guns is going to go well for us."

Sherlock frowned. "I hate to admit it but you're right. Trying to fight our way out should probably be the last resort."

"Okay, so if we can't take out those two goons, then what? What other options do we have?" John asked pragmatically.

The answer, from Lestrade, was surprising.

"Mycroft."

John and Sherlock turned in unison.

"Come again?" asked Sherlock, perplexed.

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "I think Mycroft might be the one to help us."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "When has Mycroft ever been anything more than a pesky gnat who buzzes around our heads _after_ we've already figured out a solution to a problem?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer but closed it again. He couldn't argue with that. "The point is," he continued, "I think Mycroft is going to be looking for us."

"Why do you think that?" asked John, confusion etched around his eyes.

"Who do you think I called to get the information on this place?"

Sherlock stared at him, mouth agape. "You called _Mycroft_?"

Lestrade shrugged. "His resource pool is deeper than mine. I talked to Donovan after I talked to him, gave her the information. But it came from Mycroft. He knows we're here."

John grinned, impressed. "So Montgomery thinks he's got the upper hand - he doesn't know that Donovan's not the only one who knows where we are."

Lestrade nodded. "Mycroft will figure out that something's wrong. At least, I really hope he will."

"Still doesn't mean we should expect rescue any time soon," warned Sherlock darkly. "Mycroft won't start to worry until he isn't able to reach any of us for a few hours."

"And it will take time for him to get here after that," said John.

"Not if he takes the helicopter," said Sherlock off-handedly.

Lestrade did a double-take. "Wait - he really has a helicopter?"

"I've never explicitly asked but - yeah, probably."

"Would that really surprise you?" John asked Lestrade.

Lestrade let out a half-laugh. "I don't think there's anything that could surprise me less."

For the first time since they had awoken in this drywall prison, things seemed almost normal. It was a reminder, however fleeting, that the world outside those four walls still existed. Suddenly, getting back to the world as they knew it didn't seem quite as impossible.

"So we need to hope they don't come back any time soon and, if they do, we need to not piss them off for the next few hours," John said, turning to Sherlock. "Think you can manage that?"

Sherlock looked mildly affronted. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that your record for not making someone want to punch you in the mouth is about three minutes."

Sherlock glanced to Lestrade for support but the older man was biting back a smile. The consulting detective threw up his hands in mock surrender.

"Fine. Don't do anything to provoke them. I can manage that." He arched an eyebrow at the still-smirking Lestrade. "Can you?" he asked innocuously.

He had been speaking in jest, engaging in their usual banter. He'd been trying to recreate some sense of normalcy. As it turned out, the result was quite the opposite.

In an instant, Dr. Jekyll was replaced by Mr. Hyde. Lestrade's face contorted with unmitigated fury. Sherlock and John shuddered; they didn't know the man standing in front of them.

"You saying I provoked him?" Lestrade hissed dangerously. "That I deserved _that_?"

"What? No. I-" Sherlock looked genuinely stunned but Lestrade was so blinded by his rage that he couldn't see it.

Lestrade was an erupting volcano, words boiling over like lava. He cut off Sherlock's protests by leaping to his feet. "Because what, running my mouth to him warranted him copping a feel? Like I had it coming?"

He was building up momentum now. "And you just sat there, like it didn't even matter. Like you didn't care. And why would you? You don't care about anybody but yourself anyways. That's why you can disappear for three years, why you think you can just come and go from people's lives as you please."

The cruel blows hit their mark every time.

"Do you really believe that?" asked Sherlock quietly.

"You never asked if I was okay. No, all you cared about was what he said. Like his words mattered - like he was _important_," Lestrade railed, lightening flashing in his eyes.

He was hemorrhaging vitriol and it was bleeding him dry. He heard himself saying the words but they sounded so far away. It wasn't his voice - it was the voice of the stranger who was wearing his skin like a suit.

"You're right," Sherlock's voice was barely audible.

"What?" snapped Lestrade.

"I should have asked if you were okay. But I'm asking now - are you okay?"

The raw vulnerability broke the hold on him. There was something unfamiliar in the way Sherlock spoke, as if the stranger in his skin had also grabbed hold of Sherlock's voice. And like that, as suddenly as the wrath had come over Lestrade, it was gone and he was himself again. He dropped to the cot, hand pressed over his mouth to hold the bile and the beast at bay.

"Oh God. Sherlock - oh God. I'm sorry," he rasped.

What was happening to him? He wasn't himself. He was his shadow, making all the same movements but was just a void where the light could not penetrate.

"It's okay," said Sherlock, in a voice still foreign.

"No, it's not. I don't know…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it…" he trailed off, the words ringing hollow in his ears. Why hadn't he at least tasted his words before he spit them out?

"Lestrade." Sherlock's voice was firm and, thankfully, recognizable. "It really is alright." He moved to kneel in front of Lestrade. "But you need to listen to me and believe me - I didn't, not even for a second, think that you deserved that. And I do care about what happens to you. He is _not_ more important to me, none of them are."

"I know, I do," said Lestrade with some urgency, knowing he needed to assuage the fears he had planted in his friend's mind. You asked if I really believed everything I was saying - I don't. Not even a little. I don't know why I was saying those things. It's like - the words were coming out before I could stop them. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"Well I did mean what I said. I should have asked if you were okay. And you still haven't answered me."

Lestrade's eyes clouded over. "I'm fine. Really," he hastened to add at Sherlock's skeptical look.

If Sherlock wanted to argue with Lestrade's assessment of himself, he resisted it well. He just nodded (a little reluctantly perhaps) and sank back into the filthy carpet. The silence that filled the room was deafening.

The seconds ticked by into minutes, how many Lestrade didn't know.

It was, as always, John who relieved the pressure with his innate ability to navigate the tense sea and set them on a new course.

"So what to do while we wait for Mycroft to figure out that we're in trouble?" he asked, easing Sherlock and Lestrade back into casual conversation.

"Tell me about some of your other cases - the ones that I don't drag you into," suggested Lestrade.

"I thought you read my blog?" John asked, feigning insult.

"I do. I also know that he-" Lestrade jerked his thumb in Sherlock's direction, "-has an entirely different perception of how things occurred."

"Are you asking to hear my side of the story? I'm flattered," said Sherlock, knowing that Lestrade was really just asking them to help him chase away the ugly memories littering the back alley of his mind. Sherlock was more than happy to oblige. He would have done anything in that moment if he thought it would keep Lestrade there with them.

"Which case do you want to hear about?" asked Sherlock as he scooted back to lean against the wall.

"I've been meaning to ask about how a lost Lhasa Apso led to uncovering an Irish terrorist cell," said Lestrade sinking back into the cot. "I suspect there is a lot to that story that I don't know."

And they were off, John and Sherlock tripping over each other to give their (radically differing) versions of events. As the story unfolded, Lestrade felt some of the tension begin to release its stranglehold on him. He let the words wash over him as he became lost in someone else's story.

He allowed himself to drift for a moment. That was a mistake.

In his moment of stillness, the pervasive terror saw an opening and snuck back in. He could feel the phantom limb all over him again. It was crawling over his skin like a spider and he was paralyzed, unable to shake it off.

He was straddling the line between fact and fiction, between sanity and madness, between hope and despair. He was trying to keep in balance, so afraid that one wrong move would tip the goddamn scales in a bad, bad direction.

He shuddered turbulently, drawing pause from his pair of storytellers.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock's voice was tentative, no doubt worried about saying the wrong thing.

Two pairs of concerned eyes were fixed on him. He suddenly felt very exposed.

"Just caught a chill, that's all. Sorry about that."

"You sure?" John asked.

Lestrade nodded and forced a smile. "I'm fine." His new mantra.

He was fine.

He had to be.

Except -

He wasn't.

He wasn't fine at all.


	5. Rota Fortuna

**WARNING: This chapter delves into mature content and sexual assault. Read at your own discretion.**

**Usual disclaimers apply: Not my characters, not making any profit.**

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_The wheel of Fortune turns;_

_I go down, demeaned;_

_another is raised up;_

_far too high up_

_~excerpted and translated from "__Fortune Plango Vulnera__(I Bemoan the Wounds of Fortune)", __Carmina Burana_

It was impossible to say how much time had passed. Instead of being calculated in seconds and minutes and hours, it was measured in empty words and long silences and oppressive weariness. Time rattled by like the chains of Marley's ghost, bringing haunting spectres of pasts of faded innocence, presents of hazy potential, and futures of bleak consequence.

The void left by time was at once filled with a frenzy of raucous activity from above them. There was a thunder of elephant footsteps on the stairs, signaling an end to what little reprieve they had been languishing in. The key scratched and screeched in the lock. The door was flung open with reckless intensity.

Monty stumbled through the door with an aggressive grunt. He was drunk; the stench of whiskey permeating every inch of the room. His eyes were so red they almost glowed, a demonic entity looking for a soul to steal. Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber had bathed in the same alcoholic cologne but looked like they could have drunk the world dry and still not be affected. It would have taken a potent dosage of horse tranquilizers to render them weak enough to defeat.

Monty's bloodshot eyes immediately gravitated to Lestrade who was perched tensely on the cot. Monty was visually stalking him, the proverbial cat with his canary.

"Miss me?" Monty slurred.

_I wouldn't miss you even if you stayed gone,_ Lestrade thought. What he said however, was nothing. None of them uttered a word.

"Oh, come on now," Monty pouted playfully. "Are you going to give me the silent treatment?"

"Why are you doing this?" Lestrade hadn't meant to ask the question but it slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

The question did not appear to come as a surprise to Monty; he rather seemed to expect it. "Would a reason make you feel better?"

_Probably not_, Lestrade admitted. A reason wouldn't make any of them understand why terrible people did terrible things, because they were not terrible people. Besides, Lestrade wasn't sure he would want to understand what went on inside such a malevolent mind, even if he could.

"I'm just trying to put all the pieces together," said Lestrade. "The only person who knows that happened to those three men after they disappeared is you."

"Do you really want to know what happened to them?"

"Yes, I-"

"No," interrupted Monty, abruptly somber. "I mean, do you _really_ want to know?"

The sudden tonal shift was disconcerting. For a moment, the mask Montgomery was wearing dropped and the reality that stretched across the face beneath was revealed. The man behind the monster was far more hideous and grotesque.

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," Monty continued, voice chillingly calm, "but first ask yourself if you're _sure_ you want to hear it. Do you want to know what I did to them? Do you want to know what their final moments were like? Do you want to know if it was just those three - or if there were more that you don't even know about? However, just as you cannot un-squeeze a tube of toothpaste, so too can you not un-know something once it's been told to you."

Maybe ignorance really was bliss. For Lestrade, John, and Sherlock, not knowing what had happened to the last people who had been in their position allowed them to maintain some modicum of hopefulness, a belief (however misguided) that they might not meet the same end. Perhaps it would be best to just spin Fortune's Wheel and hope for the best, while anticipating the worst.

"Is just a game to you?" asked Lestrade, both subtly and obviously redirecting the focus of his inquiry.

"Why does it have to be defined?" retorted Monty with a huff of exasperation. "It is what it is.

We're all damaged and broken in some way. Guess this is mine."

Edward Montgomery was more than damaged; he was defective. Somewhere in his fractured mind he had rationalized and justified everything he had done as just being some inherent character flaw. Heart sinking low, like the sun on the horizon, Lestrade knew there was no rational being inside this human shell that he could appeal to.

"But enough chit chat. I didn't come down here to talk," said Monty, the glassy ambivalence returning to his eyes, a function of either his rotted soul or his drunken stupor. It was impossible to tell.

"Why did you come down then?" Lestrade asked.

"I _was_ planning on coming down here to kill the spares," he said, casting his hand lazily in John and Sherlock's direction. "But now I'm starting to think I may have use for them after all."

Lestrade wasn't sure if he should feel grateful or aghast. "Your idle threats don't scare me," he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. He stood tall, the way one is directed to when confronted by a ruthless predator. He would have rather taken his chances with a grizzly.

The artificial geniality on Montgomery's face was replaced with genuine hostility. "They're not idle." His voice dropped to a deafening whisper. "And I think you know that."

. There wasn't much Lestrade knew for sure any more but he knew that the threats were real. He knew that the outcome fell on his shoulders. And he knew that he was scared.

"Leave them alone," he ordered, the command decidedly tepid and ineffective.

"I might. But that all depends on you," Monty explained. "You see, since I like you, I'm going to give you a choice in how all of this plays out. I'm going to give you two options. You simply choose the one you want."

He yanked Lestrade by the elbow from the cot and shoved him towards the center of the room. Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber roughly manhandled Sherlock and John to the cot. The two leviathans towered over the seated men, forming an impenetrable wall.

Monty drew a pistol from the waistband of his trousers. Lestrade's heart began rattling the bars of his ribcage, threatening to burst right out of his chest.

Very much doubting the simplicity of Monty's proposal and struggling to keep his voice even, Lestrade asked, "What are my options?"

"Option A - I put this gun in your friend's mouth and pull the trigger," Monty said, fixing his gun and his gaze on Sherlock frigidly. "Quick and relatively painless, all things considered."

What kind of choice was that? Lestrade rolled his eyes inwardly. "Well since I'm not the kind of person who gives up his friends to the firing squad, I can already tell I'm going to go with Option B," he said.

"You don't even know what it is yet," Monty cautioned.

"Does it involve hurting either one of them?" Lestrade asked, looking pointedly at John and Sherlock.

"No." Despite its coldness, there was truthfulness to Monty's voice.

"Then that makes my decision for me, doesn't it?" Lestrade faltered for just a moment before asking the question that he didn't want an answer to. "What's Option B?"

"A blow job."

Lestrade's heart slowed, stilled, stopped. He was looking down the barrel of a gun on either end of this decision; demise imminent no matter what choice he made.

Monty leaned in close, stale whiskey wafting from his lips. "Still want to go with Option B?"

In spite of everything - the despair, the disgust, the degradation - it never occurred to him to change his mind. His silence spoke louder than any shout ever would.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was questioning reality because surely the universe wasn't this cruel. A low growl came from deep within his throat. He wouldn't just sit here and let this happen. He couldn't.

Hearing Sherlock's sounds of protest, Monty sneered, "Your protectiveness is sweet but let me make something clear: If either of you move, I will kill him." He pressed the gun between Lestrade's eyes and smiled at Sherlock and John malevolently. "I'm sure you don't want that. After all, he's doing this for you."

Sherlock had never felt so utterly helpless. There was nothing to say, no clever deduction to be made. There was just a crushing impotence as he watched his friend make an unspeakable sacrifice.

Lestrade looked at him, haunted and lost. "It's okay Sherlock. It's my choice," he said quietly and flatly.

A swift pressure on his shoulders forced Lestrade to his knees. Monty looked down at him, coldly expectant. "It's not going to suck itself," he said icily.

Summoning strength he didn't know he had, Lestrade's hands slowly unbuckled the belt and undid the zipper of Monty's trousers in a grim reversal of their positions only hours ago. There was a hot swell of saltiness behind his eyes so he closed them. If he didn't look, then he could pretend it wasn't real.

"If you even think of using your teeth, the only thing you'll find yourself swallowing is a bullet,' Monty warned, keeping the gun pressed to Lestrade's head with one hand, while the other gripped the back of his head.

It was then that Lestrade retreated from his mind and simply existed. He was just a collection of atoms and molecules and cells, occupying space. He would go through the motions but he refused to experience it.

With his eyes closed, his other senses laid down their arms in solidarity. He couldn't hear the grunts and moans the rumbled from Monty's lips. He couldn't feel the carpet burning a hole through the knee of his trousers. He couldn't smell the sweat and liquor that clung to everything. He couldn't taste the bitter violation.

His body and mind were shutting down in a vain attempt to protect him. Everything that made him who he was simply broke off and floated away, a speck of stardust in the universe. With every passing moment, they drifted further out of his reach and he wasn't sure he would ever get all of the pieces back.

He didn't need those pieces of himself anymore anyways, he decided.

After all, he was pretty much dead already.


	6. The Ghost in the Machine

**Author's Note: As always, thank you for the reviews/follows/favourites. You all rock. Creepy internet hugs for everyone **

**Usual disclaimers apply: Not my characters, not making any profit.**

* * *

_**And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back**_

_**And given half a chance, would I take any of it back?**_

_**~Shake It Out by Florence and the Machine**_

It took an eternity for the minutes to creep past. Then, mercifully, it was over. Beckoning for his lemmings to follow him, Montgomery left without a backward glance, like a child who had grown bored with a once interesting toy.

Senses came back, too fast and too strong. A kaleidoscope of sensation temporarily paralyzed him. _Breathe_, his brain ordered. Okay. He could do that. He still remembered how. Now, sort through the sounds and the colours and the feelings. Separate them into neat piles like laundry. Organize, categorize, prioritize. Gradually the swirling slowed as the merry-go-round ground to a shaky halt.

The room still once again, Lestrade dropped to all fours and began to retch, throwing up stomach contents and disgust. Even once his stomach was empty he continued to dry heave, his body and his mind rebelling as one. John grabbed one of the water bottles, extending it to Lestrade in a meager offering of comfort. Lestrade accepted it, taking a large swig that he swished around and spat out vehemently. He kept his eyes on the floor.

"Don't look at me."

"Greg…" John began but Lestrade's violent intake of breath killed the words on his lips.

"Please," he pleaded. "I can't - please, just don't look at me."

He couldn't let them see. His tell-tale heart was pounding out a rhythm beneath the floorboards of his chest, threatening to betray him at any moment. If they looked too closely, they would discover his secret - that he was slipping away when they thought he was standing still. If they didn't look at him and he didn't look at them, then the truth wouldn't be staring anyone in the face. Maintaining appearances had become his Sisyphean task. Eternal damnation into fooling others as well as himself into believing he was fine.

With few comforts to offer, Sherlock slid off the cot, a silent invitation. Lestrade crawled on to it and rolled to face the wall, doing his very best to shut his friends and the world out.

Much as Lot's wife was unable to resist looking back upon Sodom, Sherlock and John were compelled to look at their friend the moment he turned away from them. They were moved, not to become pillars of salt, but rather to settle like dust. They could do nothing but serve as a bleak reminder of the passage of time and sorrow; a hopelessly ineffective barrier against the elements.

John ran a hand tiredly over his face, unsure of what else to do.

"Lie down," Sherlock mouthed. They were all exhausted and running on fumes. John shook his head but Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder and looked protectively at Lestrade. The message was clear: _I'll stay up with him_.

"You sure?" John mouthed back. Sherlock nodded and John reluctantly stretched out on the carpet, futilely searching for a comfortable position.

Once he was certain that John was asleep, Sherlock moved with mouse-like quietness to sit beside the cot. He leaned his back against it, his head in line with the back of Lestrade's.

"I'm not looking at you," he offered mildly.

He swore he could hear Lestrade smile sadly.

"Thanks," The voice was muffled by the arms his face was buried in.

"I feel like there are all these right things I'm supposed to say but I don't know any of them," Sherlock admitted.

Lestrade didn't answer.

Maybe there was nothing to be said.

Sherlock sat up and shifted sideways, his shoulders perpendicular to the prone figure on the cot. He brought his right arm up slowly to rest along the length of Lestrade's upper back with a feather-light touch. He moved slowly so as not to spook his friend. Muscles tensed but Lestrade didn't flinch or pull away. Sherlock began to slowly and methodically rub his knuckles across the base of Lestrade's neck.

With a great, shuddering sigh, Lestrade rolled onto his back, staring fixedly at the ceiling. Sherlock moved his hand to gently rub back and forth along Lestrade's collarbone with his thumb.

Respecting his friend's wishes, Sherlock's eyes were focused on a spot on the soiled carpet. Lestrade never shifted his gaze from the ceiling.

They were silent, each tangled up in their own thoughts.

Then, suddenly - "I can't do this."

Lestrade's words shredded Sherlock's heart like talons. "Yes, you can," he whispered back, his hand lightly but firmly gripping Lestrade's shoulder.

"I can't-"

"Yes, you can," Sherlock interrupted. "If I didn't you could, I'd tell you, right?"

A tiny, humorless laugh escaped Lestrade's lips. "You'd be the first to tell me."

"Then trust me when I say you are stronger than this. Mycroft will find us, we're going to get out here, and then we'll deal with everything else. Right now, it's just about survival. Just - survive, okay?"

The voices in Lestrade's head bombarded him with questions. Was surviving the same as living? Would it make a difference if he lived through this just to spend the rest of his life being dead? Did he even want to survive?

No, better not think like that. Of course he wanted to survive.

Didn't he?

Forcing what he hoped passed for a genuine smile, he said, "You're right. Everything's going to be okay."

But it wasn't. Nothing was ever going to be okay again. Maybe if he could bleach his eyeballs and his tongue and his brain, remove every trace of everything that had happened, maybe then he'd at least feel human again. Right now, he felt like a fraction of a person; an imposter of the worst kind.

"Can you make yourself not feel?" The question was as stark and cold as a winter wind.

"You can try. And it works for a while," Sherlock answered honestly, singing the song of experience. "But you can't ever outrun your ghosts; they always chase you down."

"And when they do?"

"Then you either find a way to put them to rest or risk being haunted for the rest of your life."

Whether it was the right thing to say or not, Sherlock couldn't be sure. Lestrade merely whispered a breathless, "thank you" and rolled to face the wall once again.

Recognizing his dismissal, Sherlock had retreated to the other side of the room. Lestrade tuned back into the town hall meeting the continued to rage inside his head. There was dissension in the group; they all had different plans for him. One was getting ready to run away. One was bracing for a fight. One was praying for death. The voices, all telling him what to do, tripped and fell over each other until it was just a cacophony of sound. He sighed and left them alone to fight it out amongst themselves. He was tired.

He was tired of this dance, this song on constant loop in his brain. It was like waltzing on broken glass. One misstep and reality would slice him open, spilling his fears and doubts across the floor. He had to step with great care to make sure he kept it all in. It was a lonely dance, just he and his ghost in the dark. Always moving, always spinning.

Knowing all the steps but hating the tune.


	7. The Law of Inertia

**WARNING: This chapter delves into mature content and sexual assault. Read at your own discretion.**

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_**An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force. **_

_**An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.**_

~_**Newton's First Law of Motion***_

The uncertainty, Lestrade decided, was the worst. It threatened to gnaw right through him like a rat, _1984-_style. The only thing scarier than nothing was the possibility of anything. In the vast infinity of imagination, every fear and doubt appeared. And if his imagination could come up with increasingly horrific scenarios, he could only wonder what Montgomery was dreaming up.

While Lestrade dreamt without sleeping, John and Sherlock slept without dreaming. They took turns, one of them always staying awake, in case Lestrade needed to reach out to one of them.

He never did.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs sounded the alarm and all three snapped to attention. Sherlock and John were on their feet in an instant as Lestrade pulled himself into a sitting position.

He vaguely wondered if Monty and his men would just kill him this time. He wondered if he would even care.

The mental torment was devouring him slowly, as insidious as cancer. Would the battle scars on his soul even heal? Or, if he survived, would he have wounds that ran from now until eternity? Did he even want to live anymore, walking around with scars only he could see?

More than anything that had happened, more than anything that might happen, this indifference he had developed towards his own existence terrified him to the bone. He was trying to muster up the energy to continue fighting for survival but his spirit was evading him. It was like having the words on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach - he knew what he was grasping in the dark for the something that he needed, even if he couldn't quite identify it.

Montgomery and Co. lurched into the room with a crash of depravity. Monty's eyes were wild, cannibalistic. Something had whet his appetite and he was hunting something to quell his insatiable urge. He would devour anyone in his path.

He looked straight at Lestrade.

"Get up."

Lestrade didn't move.

He couldn't go forward. He couldn't go back. So he stayed still. Motionless. Inert.

Monty raised his voice slightly. "I said-"

"I heard you," Lestrade interrupted, his voice frustratingly calm.

"And?"

"No."

Whatever reaction Montgomery had been anticipating, it wasn't the one he got. For the first time, he didn't know what to say. He looked genuinely taken aback and flummoxed.

"I'll ask you one more time, because I'm a gentleman," said Monty dangerously. "Get. Up."

Lestrade didn't move.

He wasn't defiant. He wasn't taunting. He wasn't even fearful. He was just…there.

"If you don't get up now, I swear to God I will rip your arm from its socket dragging you out of here," snarled Monty.

Lestrade shrugged. "Okay."

Sherlock and John had been looking back and forth between the two men during the exchange like spectators at a tennis match. Montgomery seemed shaken, off his game. Lestrade seemed to be lobbing responses back half-heartedly, apathetic towards the outcome.

Monty, clearly unaccustomed to such concentrated ambivalence, resorted to school yard tactics to assert his dominance - physical intimidation. Puffing up his chest, he moved sharply towards Lestrade.

It was obvious that Lestrade was not going to put up any sort of fight. Protective instinct kicking in, John leapt to put himself between Monty and Lestrade. It was as unwise as trying to get between an addict and his fix.

The hammer of vengeance, in the form of Tweedle Dumb's foot, struck swiftly and without mercy. It came down on the side of John's knee, dropping the doctor to the ground. Pain flared through his leg, shooting up to his hip and running down to his ankle. The soldier in him ignored the screaming of his leg and continued to throw himself in harm's way to protect his friend. It was only the crushing presence of Monty's boot to his chest, pinning him to the floor like a frog to a dissection tray that ceased his efforts

From his vulnerable position, John stared up, his face painted with fury, frustration, and frigidity.

"Oh, I _like_ this one," Monty said, the smarminess returning to his voice once again. He looked at Lestrade. "You didn't tell me your friend was so…_spirited_."

The cockroaches of fear scattered as the light of foreboding flicked on. Monty's low voice screamed his ill intentions. Lestrade clamped down on his tongue so hard that he was surprised he didn't bite it clean in half.

Monty pinned John's arms by his sides as he straddled the younger man's hips. "Maybe I should take him for a test drive instead," he crooned as he cruelly ran a hand over John's hair.

"Leave him alone," warned Sherlock icily.

"What's the matter, Sweetness, you jealous? I'll happily have a go at you too - when I'm done with this one."

As he toyed with John and Sherlock, Monty watched Lestrade carefully from the corner of his eye, daring him to react.

Monty raked his fingers roughly along John's chest. "I could break you in," he said appraisingly. "Hope you don't mind if things get a little rough - I've got a lot of pent up frustration to release."

"Go to hell," John spat out defiantly.

"I'll take you there with me. Unless, of course," Monty said, licking his lips salaciously at Lestrade, "someone makes me a better offer."

The town hall meeting inside Lestrade's head reached a crescendo. The voices were all shouting over one another, desperate to be heard. A decision had to be made, and now.

It would have been easy to stay seated, to remain silent, to do nothing.

It would have been easy.

But it wouldn't have been right.

Lestrade stood up.

Monty leaned back and studied Lestrade appraisingly. "You're noble or you're stupid. I'm not sure which."

_Probably both_, Lestrade thought.

"Get off of him," he said to Monty quietly.

"Oh I'll gladly hop off of him if it means I can hop on you," Monty said, equal parts creepy and lascivious.

He stood up, deliberately kicking John's injured leg as he stepped over the prone figure. John bit his lip and inhaled sharply through his nose, fighting the surge of nausea that the pain brought.

The malice radiating from Monty turned Lestrade to stone where he stood. He couldn't even flinch when the rough hands grasped his cheeks.

"Point of no return," Monty hissed. "Can't let you off the ride once it's started."

Knowing that he was signing himself up for his own execution, Lestrade barely whispered, "I'll go."

"Excellent." The smile slid off of Monty's face like melted wax. "But you'll pay for wasting my time." His voice grew ominous. "I'm going to turn you inside out."

"Greg, no," pleaded John vehemently, struggling to pull himself up. He mentally railed at himself for once again failing to keep his friend safe from harm.

Monty roughly turned Lestrade so that he was facing his friends instead of his tormentor. Monty's arm snaked around Lestrade's neck as he nuzzled his head into his grey hair. "I'll be the best you've ever had," he murmured hideously as he pressed his body into Lestrade's menacingly.

The world was starting to turn very fast and Sherlock was teetering on the edge of control. "Lestrade, you don't have to do this."

"Of course he doesn't _have_ to," said Monty. "But he _wants _to."

"Shut up," snapped Sherlock, not hating anyone more in his life than he hated Monty at that moment. He tried to shut out the madness and focus only on his friend, the one who was about to do the unspeakable. "Lestrade. Just look at me. Please."

Lestrade's eyes never left the floor.

"Dammit, Lestrade, look at me!" Sherlock half-pleaded, half-ordered.

But he wouldn't. He couldn't. If he looked at Sherlock now he would lose his nerve. The only thing keeping him from curling up and dying on the spot was his determination to protect his friends. Monty was right - he did want to do this. He wanted to spare his friends the cruel indignity of losing oneself. They had already been through too much in the years since Moriarty. They had served their time in the prison of the mind. He wouldn't let them suffer again. He would shoulder their burden as well as his own.

"Nothing to say?" purred Monty. "That's okay. You'll be screaming soon enough. They always scream."

The slight hitch of Lestrade's chest brought a vindictive, _triumphant_ smile to Monty's face. It damn near broke Sherlock. The madman knew he had won.

"Please," he said throatily, not caring how pathetic he sounded, "I'm begging you. Take me. I'll go."

"Or me," said John without hesitation, voice also cracking. "Just-just not him."

The part of Lestrade's heart that was still beating simultaneously pumped out gratitude and fear. His friends were willing to feed themselves to the lions for him. But he couldn't let them. The rest of him may be stained but his conscience would remain clear.

He shook his head, eyes still downcast. "It's okay," he said simply.

And just like that, Lestrade shot the bullet that killed them. The finality in those two words ripped through John and Sherlock, leaving them to watch the blood of helplessness pool around them, draining the life right out of them.

Monty dragged Lestrade with him towards the door as he cast a final sneer at John and Sherlock. "Don't worry - he'll be in _good _hands. And I'll return what's left of him to you when I'm done." He waved mockingly as he threw in one final shot. "But it might be a while - I intend to take my time."

As the door slammed shut behind them, Sherlock rushed forward to frantically twist the handle. It was an irrational hope against hope that the door would open and he could pull Lestrade back with him into the land of the living. To his dismay but not to his surprise, the door didn't budge.

Sherlock pawed at the locked door like a dog that was afraid his owner was never coming back. He pressed his forehead against it, rooted to his spot. For long moments the only sound was their ragged breathing and the tick-tick-tock of the clock in their hearts. When the first of the agonized, pleading cries penetrated the silence and assaulted their ears, Sherlock recoiled from the door as if it had burned him. He staggered back until he hit the wall. He sank, boneless, to the ground.

John groaned loudly from a different type of pain coursing through him as the sound grew unbearable. He desperately covered his ears like a terrified child in a thunderstorm, trying in vain to block out the sound.

Sherlock dropped his head into his folded arms. The screaming in the distance was rivaled only by the screaming in his head. He wanted so badly to escape the noise, to run away and never come back.

But there was nowhere to go.

* * *

_*****_**_ . _**


End file.
